


Simul Justus et Peccator

by RPGgirl514



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bible, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Character of Faith, Crisis of Faith, Dean Prays, Episode: s02e13 Houses of the Holy, Episode: s02e22 All Hell Breaks Loose, Gen, Having Faith, Minor Canonical Character(s), Prayer
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-09
Updated: 2017-01-09
Packaged: 2018-09-15 23:30:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9263681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RPGgirl514/pseuds/RPGgirl514
Summary: "At the same time, both righteous and a sinner."  Missing scenes, drabbles and miscellany on Dean Winchester's faith journey throughout the series.  Mostly canon-compliant.  Not updated on a regular basis.





	1. Mark 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a missing scene from 02x13, “Houses of the Holy.” It takes place just after the car chase in which the man was impaled, before Dean returns to the motel at the end of the episode. In my headcanon this episode was a turning point for Dean in his faith.

Dean got out of the Impala, still reeling from what had just happened. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the truck driver getting out as well. As he approached the Ford, he vaguely heard the truck driver talking on his cell phone – he had called 911, from the sound of it. Glass crunched under Dean's boots as he came to stand by the driver's side window to fully take in the grisly scene. The would-be rapist had been impaled by the rod from the truck. He was dead before he even knew what had happened.

Dean Winchester had seen quite a few gruesome deaths in his lifetime – an occupational hazard of being a hunter. This one, though – this one shook him to the core. Sirens in the distance brought him back to reality. Soon the scene would be crawling with paramedics and cops and each one of them would want him to give his statement. Or worse – one of them would recognize him as the bank robber from Milwaukee.

Tires squealed as Dean left, the truck driver yelling in protest after him. He drove aimlessly, not quite ready to go back to the motel and meet Sam with his smug _I told you so_ face. The hour was late, and much of the city was already dark. A town like Providence didn't have much of a nightlife, Dean supposed.

He rolled to a stop and parked, realizing with a start he was in front of Our Lady of the Angels church. It was almost as if he was meant to end up there. Dean pulled his leather jacket tighter around him – the nights got cold here in January. He was a little surprised to find the enormous front doors unlocked, but went inside nonetheless.

The altar was alight with candles in red jars, and a broad figure was seated in the very front pew. Dean's boots echoed heavily in the silent sanctuary. Neither he nor Father Reynolds spoke at first when he sat down beside the priest.

“Father, I –” Dean's voice cracked, and he swallowed hard. His hands balled up inside the pockets of his coat. He chuckled nervously. “I've never done this before.”

Father Reynolds gave him an encouraging nod.

“I've never believed in God,” he blurted out, then looked around as though afraid God himself was listening in, waiting to smite him for his unbelief. “I don't think I even know how. I mean, my mom did. Sam does. But it comes so naturally to people like them, you know? I don't – I'm not –”

“You don't think you deserve to be saved,” said Father Reynolds quietly.

Dean shrugged.

“Dean,” said Father Reynolds, “I am a man of the faith. I have witnessed miracles. I have seen sinners of the worst magnitude come to know God. But tonight I saw something I would never have believed had I not seen it with my own two eyes. It is the struggle of all who believe; indeed, it is what faith is. But the Lord will help you if you ask for it.”

Dean began shaking his head. “Father, I don't know if I'm ready –”

“The Lord will meet you wherever you are, Dean,” he said gently, laying a hand on Dean's sleeve.

Dean was quiet for a little longer, studying the dancing candle flames on the altar.

“What happened, son?”

It came out in a flood of words, Dean's chest tight as he told Father Reynolds what he had witnessed. “It was God's will,” he finished. “I could feel it.” He let out the breath he had been holding. “Is that even a thing, like, is that possible? I could feel – I don't know. Something. A higher power. It was like God was there, in that moment.”

“Everything is possible for one who believes,” said the priest. He took his hand from Dean's jacket and stood up, approaching the altar. He took a thick, leather-bound book from under the altar and opened it to the front cover, then took a pen out of his pocket and began to write. Dean merely watched him, unsure whether he had been dismissed or not.

Father Reynolds closed the book, then stepped down from the altar and held it out. Dean glanced at it, then back up at the priest.

He shook his head. “Father, I don't –” He laughed. “I don't need a Bible.”

Father Reynolds shook the book at him. “Just take it,” he said, and Dean knew better than to argue. He held it in his hands, the weight of it surprising him. It was heavier than it looked. He slipped it into the inside pocket of his coat, snug up next to his flask of whiskey. The irony made him smirk.

“Thank you.”

“You're welcome,” said Father Reynolds, sitting down next to him again. “You might find Mark, chapter nine particularly interesting.”

Dean nodded slowly. “Okay.” He stood up. “Well, uh, thanks for everything, Father. I should be getting back, see how my brother is holding up.”

Father Reynolds nodded. “Go in peace. I hope we shall meet again.”

Dean frowned slightly, unsure how to respond, so he just nodded. The echo of his footfalls followed him out of the church. He drove back to the motel, the Bible a comforting weight against his chest under his coat. He put the Impala in park and brought it out, running his fingers over the leather cover, so like the texture of his jacket. Leather had always made him feel safe, somehow. He opened it to the priest's message:

_Dean –_

_I see in you a righteous man.  
_ _Never forget that angels are watching over you._

_Your brother in Christ,_  
_Father Patrick Reynolds_  
_Our Lady of the Angels  
Providence, RI_

Dean smiled faintly and scanned the table of contents. Using a slice of light from the motel parking lot lights, he quickly read through Mark, chapter nine. It was not difficult to understand why Father Reynolds had recommended this chapter. Jesus pulling a Gandalf, his clothes becoming a dazzling white? Banishing an evil spirit through prayer? And of course, the possessed boy's father, saying “I do believe, help me in my unbelief!” Salt and fire as cleansing agents? It was as if the chapter was written for a questioning hunter. Maybe Father Reynolds knew more about the life than he let on. Jesus was a badass, that much was clear.

Dean shut the book and tucked it back into his jacket before going inside. This was personal. No need for Sam to see it.


	2. John 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This scene takes place during 02x22, “All Hell Breaks Loose, Part 2,” before Dean makes his crossroads deal.

In the months that followed, Dean kept the Bible that Father Reynolds had given him close by but gave it little thought. It spent most of its time nestled in his jacket pocket or the glove compartment of the Impala, though the latter was always a gamble that Sam might find it. Dean wasn’t ready to answer the questions Sam would inevitably have about it. Once in a while Dean took it out to flip idly through it or reread the inscription for the thousandth time, but otherwise he treated it much like he did the other areas of his life. Faith was the domain of normal people, who could afford the luxury of stable home lives, lasting relationships, and career choices that didn’t involve demons and monsters trying to kill you. These were the things other people deserved, but Dean was denied. He told himself it was the nature of the job.

_ But that’s just an excuse, _ said a nagging voice in the back of his mind.  _ You could have all those things and more, Dean, but you chose this instead. The devil you know . . . _

Besides, it wasn’t like he had never read the Bible. Dean was a hunter; research was a part of the job. It was a part that Dean hated and if at all possible, relegated to Sam, but he had still done his fair share of reading. He knew the stories. The plagues in Egypt. Daniel in the lions’ den. Noah’s ark. More relevant were the prophecies of Isaiah and Revelation, but those were speculative at best. Most hunters were men of action: exorcise the demon and send it screaming back to Hell. Take care of the problem at hand. A job well done. Hunters like Sam, big-picture people, those were a rarity. Hunters like his little brother wanted to stop the problem at its source, which was far more trouble than hunters like Dean thought it was worth. Why go looking for trouble when enough trouble found them as it was?

And find them, it had.

Bobby came and went as he pleased from the abandoned little shack, bringing back food that Dean didn't eat. Dean barely heard him leave. To tell the truth, Bobby had never seen him such a wreck before – not even after John had died. He held a constant vigil for his dead brother, who lay still and ashen grey on the naked mattress. Dean fell asleep in the wooden chair by his bedside, waking in fits and starts. If Bobby noticed the leather-bound book he clung to like a lifeline, he didn't mention it.

Finally, Bobby had to say something. It had been two days. Hunters knew better than anyone the timeline of death, and it could only go sideways on them if they held out any longer burning Sam's body. But Dean wasn't having any of it, and he lashed out at Bobby. Told him to leave. So Bobby did.

Dean started awake to waning daylight filtering in through the dirty windows of the shack, blinking around. Bobby was still gone. Dean checked his watch. Just before eight o'clock. Dean inhaled deeply and rubbed his face. His clothes felt grimy, but he hardly cared. How could he eat, sleep, bathe – not when Sam could never do any of those things again?

Dean let the book in his hands fall open as it would, more for something to do than anything else. He stared at the page, unseeing, uncomprehending. His eyes snagged on a line:  _ Your brother will rise again. _ Dean had to read it several times before backing up a line for context.  _ 'Lord,' Martha said to Jesus, 'if you had been here, my brother would not have died.'  _ Dean snorted quietly into the coming darkness and read on.  _ 'But I know that even now God will give you whatever you ask.' _

The coincidence of it made Dean laugh in disbelief. The sound felt  _ wrong _ in the stiff silence, with his brother's body lying cold and still before him, and Dean quickly stifled it. What were the odds he would find this tale of a sister, mourning her dead brother, and begging the Son of God to raise him from the dead? On this day, of all days, when he would do anything – _ anything _ – to bring Sam back?

Twilight had darkened the room so that Dean had to get up to switch the light on, and his stiff legs, curled under the chair all day, protested as he stood up. He glanced at Sam, the light casting his skin in a greenish tone that made bile and sorrow rise up inside Dean in equal measure. He tore his gaze away and continued reading.

_ Then Jesus said, 'Did I not tell you that if you believe, you will see the glory of God?' _

Well, shit.

Dean took a steadying breath and closed his eyes, keeping his place in the Bible by closing it around one finger.

“God, if you're there,” Dean said into the silence, his voice gravelly with disuse. “I, uh, don't really know how this whole prayer thing works, so . . . here goes.” He coughed to clear his throat. “Hell, I'm not sure if I even believe, but . . . I'm trying. Help me.” He paused, as though waiting for a response. Dean cracked an eye open and looked around. Everything was still.

He sighed. “You know, I've never been much of a pray-er, and between you and me, I wouldn't be doing this if it weren't for Sammy. You've gotta bring him back, you've just got to. If you really exist, you'll bring him back.”

No response.

“Please.” Dean's voice cracked. “I'll do anything; please, just bring Sam back.” The tears had come in earnest now. “Please.”

It was a moment before he opened his eyes and the book again. Dean smoothed out the thin page and continued reading.  _ Then Jesus looked up and said, 'Father, I thank you that you have heard me. I knew that you always hear me.' _

It was over. Sam wasn't coming back. Dean could never have enough faith to please God. At least not enough to bring Sam back, which was all that mattered.

Dean kept reading, and one line seemed to stand out, bolder than all the others. His blood ran cold.  _ 'You know nothing at all! You do not realize that it is better for you that one man die for the people than that the whole nation perish.' _

Unbidden, his dad's last words rang in his ears as Dean turned to look at Sam's body.  _ “Watch out for Sam. You've got to save him, Dean. And if you can't, you're gonna have to kill him. Promise me.”  _ Dean had promised with his eyes and slightest nod of the head.

Anger flared up in Dean, and with a wordless roar he threw the book across the room, where it slapped against the wall and fell to the floor. Dean, breathing hard, swiped a hand over his face. He planted both hands on his knees to stop them from shaking.

Dean's mouth hardened. He clung to the anger he had, to edge out the grief that threatened to consume him. If God wouldn't help him save Sammy, then he'd go to someone who would. Dean grabbed his coat, steeled himself and headed to the crossroads.


End file.
